


Wasting Away

by mageicalwishes



Series: Carry On Sparks [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Depressed Simon Snow, Love, M/M, One Shot, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Sad Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:21:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24490477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mageicalwishes/pseuds/mageicalwishes
Summary: After their disastrous trip to America, Baz thought that they were done. But now Watford has been plunged back into chaos, and Simon Snow has found out the truth about the Mage. The truth about himself. And now he’s falling apart, all over again.Baz is doing his best to help him through it, but, really, he doesn’t know how.Hopelessly lost, he figures a plate of scones aren’t a bad place to start.Inspired by Carry On Sparks, Week 2 - Butter.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Sparks [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784923
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	Wasting Away

**Baz**

“Snow,” I call, tapping on the door, lightly. “Can I come in.” 

It feels a little silly, to be honest. Asking for permission to come into my own bedroom - Into _our_ bedroom. But … that’s where we are, right now. He needs space, so I give it to him. When I can. 

There’s no answer, which, I suppose, is answer enough. Silence is generally a yes. 

Creaking the door open, slowly, I enter - Crossing the room, and hovering over his bed. Searching his face for opposition, I see none and sit. Perching myself awkwardly at the foot of his bed. 

He hasn’t moved since I left him; his body curled in the exact same space under the duvet. His wings flopped behind him, limply, and his tail wrapped around his stomach in a pitiful self-hug.

I’d hug him properly, if he’d let me. But he won’t. So I don’t. There’s no point. 

“I brought you these,” I say, sliding the plate closer to him over the duvet. “Scones.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look up. Just lies there, frozen. His eyes scrunched shut, as if he can't even bear the sight of me. Sometimes I don’t think he can, to be honest. 

Sometimes me being here just makes things worse. I know. I know … Yet, I don’t stop. He'd probably be better off if I just left him and Bunce to it. But I can't. _That_ would be giving up. And I couldn't live with myself if I gave up on Simon Snow - If I let him think that I'd given up on him. I'm _disgracefully_ selfish, like that. Unwilling to let his love go, even when I should. 

“They’re warm,” I push on. “I got Cook Prichard to make them especially for you … I even brought you some extra butter. And a spoon, in case you wanted to eat it. I know how you love your butter.” 

I laugh, pitifully meek. He doesn’t laugh back. 

“Not hungry,” he gruffs, tugging the duvet around himself, tighter. Hiding himself away from me. 

He hasn’t eaten a proper meal since he found out. And he hasn’t eaten _at all_ since the day before yesterday - When Bunce sobbed so hard at the state of him, that he _had_ to do it. He’s still the hero, like that. Even now. Even when he doesn’t think he is. He could never just leave her crying. Not if there was something he could do to fix it. _That stupid, loveable fool._

I’d probably beg too, at this point (Tears, and all). I’m not above degrading myself, in that way. Not if it makes him better. Not if it keeps him alive. 

“You have to eat _something,_ Simon,” I plead. “Just a tiny bit, please. You don’t have to eat the whole plate, or anything. I understand that you’re … Not hungry. I just - You’re wasting away.”

And it’s true - He is. Everyday he gets worse. His face frighteningly gaunt and sallow, with the recent deprivation. It’s a wonder he can still talk at all, to be honest. He can’t have much energy left in him. _He can’t go on like this for much longer._

He’s still beautiful, of course. I don’t think that there’s a world where he isn’t. But he’s lost something. His lustre. His spark. His … Him. It’s like the sun has died out, behind his eyes. Like life has finally beaten it out of him.

It had never made sense to me, how he could be so him, in spite of all the world had thrown at him. He was a weapon, and yet he was endlessly soft and caring. He was abandoned, and yet he spread love around like he had an excess of it. He was loyal, even though he had been betrayed, countless times. He was a million sweet contradictions in one. And he still is. He’s still _all_ of those things to me - Soft, caring, loving, loyal. He never believes me when I tell him that, though. He doesn’t see the him I do. I _wish_ he could, though. I wish I could make him _see._

I’d kill him all over again, if I could. The Mage, that is. Not Simon. I could never kill _him_ (If I could he’d be _long_ gone by now. I’m not _actually_ quite as ineffective as I led my family to believe, all those years). 

He had to have known what he was to Simon. There was _no way_ that he didn’t. And yet … he abandoned him. His own _Father._ He just … Dumped him with the Normals, and dragged him back to Watford when he finally became of use to him.

He didn’t even _bother_ telling him that he had a family. He just let them think that they were all dead. That he was all alone in the world. _The monster._

I’ll never be able to forget the last week of First Year. How he’d wept till he was red in the face and wheezing, every night. _Every. Single. Night._

He so desperately didn’t want to go back to the Normals. But … _Why_ would anybody expect him to? The Mage had shown him the world. A world where he belonged. A world where he was special, and loved, and wanted. And then he just went right back, and snatched it all away from him, without even a _second_ of thought of what it may do to him. No remorse. No understanding. Just a _cruel, selfish_ zealot - So caught up in ruling the world, that he’d tear his own son apart to get there. 

It had torn me apart to hear his cries. I hadn’t understood it then; the ceaseless twisting of my heart, at the sound of it. I’d just put it down to annoyance, at the time - Not upset. But it was. I was listening to the boy I loved tearing himself apart, and knowing there was absolutely _nothing_ I could do to help him. It was awful … It’s _still_ awful. 

The Mage will never have to pay for it, though. It’s too late for that. The death he got was _far_ too quick. _Far too kind._ He deserved worse, for what he did to him. _Far worse._

“I’m not hungry, Baz,” he snaps. “Just leave me alone. I want to be _alone.”_

Sighing, I rest a hand on his ankle. I can still touch him, sometimes - Over-top of covers, or in the brief, flickering moments when something comes over him and he just ... takes what he needs from me. I lap those moments up, greedily, because I can never be certain that they won’t be the last. 

He lifts his head up, then. Glaring over at me, weakly. His eyes bruised by a lack of sleep, and his hair clinging to his forehead in greasy, matted waves. 

I don’t actually know _exactly_ how much sleep he’s been getting, recently - Although, I know it isn’t _much._

He doesn’t like me sleeping in the room, anymore, so it’s been harder to keep track. But I can still hear him, faintly, from the bathroom, where I sleep. Hear his sobs. Hear his muffled screams. It’s torture to lie there, staring up at the ceiling, knowing there’s nothing I can do. But, I do. 

The first night, I relented, and went in to try and comfort him. But he just shoved me away, and started sobbing harder. So, I got the message. _I’m no help to him._

I haven’t tried again since.

But … I haven’t just abandoned him, either. I could never. I text him now, instead (When his distress gets too all-consuming). A simple: _'_ _Are you alright? Do you want me there?_ _'_ _._ I always get the same answer, of course - An even simpler: _'_ _No_ _'._ But it’s something. It’s not silence. So, I take it. 

“I can’t just leave you like this, Snow. You have to eat _one._ Then I promise you I’ll go, and leave you be. Just, please … You have to eat one. Otherwise you’ll end up looking like me,” I joke, flatly. “We wouldn’t want _that.”_

He freezes, assessing me with a cool silence, before giving in. 

“Fine,” he huffs, grabbing a hold of the plate. “Whatever you want.” 

_He doesn’t have much fight left in him._

* * *

Despite his protests, Snow polishes off three scones, before plopping the plate down on the mattress. 

I try not to smile too wide, at that. It’s still _nowhere_ near enough. But it’s better than nothing, so I let myself have it. A minor victory is still a victory, after all. 

“Do you want anymore?” 

“No,” he says, flopping back down against his pillow, with a sigh. 

“Okay,” I breathe, taking the plate, and securing the clingfilm over it. “For later,” I explain, sliding it onto his bedside cabinet. “If you want.” 

He flips, then. Staring over at me - His eyebrows drawn, and his eyes glassy. It hurts to look at him like this - So shattered and vulnerable. But I hold his gaze, determinedly. 

“Do you want me to go, love?” I whisper, dragging my lips up into a soft half-smile. It’s not real, and I can tell that he knows, but it was worth a try. I don’t want him to think I’m unhappy. While I’m not exactly beaming right now, I’m far happier than I’d be without him. I _have_ to make him believe that. But I know he still doesn’t. 

“I don’t know,” he grimaces, jabbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

“Careful,” I mutter, unthinkingly. “Look … If you don't know, how about I go and get ready for bed, and _then_ you decide. That’ll give you some time to think. Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I guess.” 

In the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror, blankly. My hair scraped up into a messy bun, and my skin worryingly pale. I need to feed, but I don’t want to leave him. So I’m sure that it wait until morning. 

Despite my best efforts, I don’t look much better than Snow. Which is stupid, really - _I’m_ not the one who has just received devastating news. I’m just leeching off of his pain, and bemoaning my own life. _It’s disgusting really._ And it’s no wonder he can’t stand to be around me anymore (Not properly, anyway). I can barely stand to be around myself, these days. Not like this. _Useless. Pitiful. Stuck._

Grabbing at my toothbrush, I dab a fingertip against Snow’s Spider Man monstrosity. Bone dry. Just as I thought. 

He’s slipped back into it - The not caring for himself. Just like before America. First the eating. Then the showering. And now … This. 

Two minutes is too much for him now. He won’t even give himself _two minutes._ And it breaks my heart. 

I’d cast a **_'_** ** _Fresh as a Daisy_** ** _'_ ** for him, if he wanted - Just to clean him up a bit. But he wouldn’t. He hates magic, now; even when it can do him some good. That’s why being back at Watford has been so difficult for him. Now it’s not just me and Bunce reminding him of all that he’s lost, but the whole bloody world. _Every_ student. _Every_ teacher. _Every_ brick of this building. It must be unbearable.

I’d take him away from here, if I could. Away from it all. 

I’d do anything to make him feel alright, again. To take the pain away.

If I knew how, I would. I swear it. 

But I don't. I can't. There’s _nothing_ I can do for him. 

Nothing but stay. Waiting for the day he wants me again. Waiting for when he needs me. 

I’d wait forever, if that’s what was necessary. 

I’d do anything for him. 

He’s my everything. He's my only. 

* * *

Padding back into the room, I stare over at my stripped bed, questioningly (I didn’t bring my bedding in from the bath, because I didn’t want him to feel like I was pressuring him). 

Coughing lightly, he speaks, his voice nothing but a broken whisper. 

“You can stay. Not … Not in my bed. I don’t want - I can’t. You can … You know, in your bed, though. If you want.”

“Okay,” I sigh, relieved.

It’s closer. He’s letting me closer. 

“Just … I don’t know if it’s - If you can stay all night.” 

“That’s alright, Simon. As long as you want, I’ll stay. Just … Say if you change your mind, and I’ll go back. No questions asked.” 

He nods, wordlessly, as I cross the room and slip into bed. Sometimes he gets mad when I'm softer with him - Thinks I'm being patronising, and trying to baby him. Tonight he doesn't seem to mind. 

I’m probably going to freeze to death, lying here (What with the lack of bedding, and the window flung wide open), but I don’t complain. It feels too strange. _Too precarious._ _Anything_ could tip us off balance, and throw us back to where we were - So I keep my mouth shut. 

Progress with him is always like this - Never constant or assured. But I’d take it over nothing, any day. 

A few months ago, I was so certain that he was going to dump me, that I’d written and recited a whole acceptance speech (All “I’ll treasure the time we had together, always” and “Don’t think that this means you have to be a stranger”. All the traditional codswallop). All I’d _really_ have wanted to say would be “No. You can’t”. But if he didn’t want me anymore, then who was I to disagree. 

Thinking back on it, I cringe at how grotesquely bleak the whole thing was. But … it had felt necessary at the time. It had felt important (I suppose that, faced with the heartbreaking reality of our situation, it had made me feel a little better to _at least_ be prepared. Pitches are never to be caught off guard, after all. Not visibly, anyway). 

I’ve forgotten most of it now, of course. But I haven’t thrown the script away. I don’t think that I need it anymore - Since things are slightly better (For the most part). But … I can’t be sure. I can never be sure. So I’ll keep it. Just in case. 

“Goodnight, Simon,” I whisper. My voice croaking around the anxious, barbed knot, lodged in my throat. “I … I love you.” 

It’s not the first time I’ve said it. I’ve done it once before - When we first got back to England. 

I don’t know why I did it then, to be honest. We were just sat in the airport, waiting for our cab to arrive while Bunce was in the loo, when I just … blurted it out. It _definitely_ wasn’t the most romantic scene, but I just couldn’t hold it in any longer. Not when he thought that I’d rather be without him. Not when he couldn’t see how much he meant to me. 

And I don’t know _why_ I’ve done it now, either. Declaring my love for him _(Again)_ definitely isn’t an appropriately cautious move. But … I want him to know. Even though I know he won’t say it back. I need him to know. 

He doesn’t answer, obviously; the only sound in the room, his shushed sniffles. But I don’t mind. He doesn’t seem any more upset … Yet. So … It’s as positive of a reaction as I could’ve, _realistically,_ hoped for. 

But, just as my eyes are fluttering shut, finally succumbing to the weight of sleep, I hear it: 

“I love you too, Baz.” 

It’s so quiet that I doubt I’d have been able to hear it without the whole … vampire hearing, thing. But I do. Because he’s said it. Because he’s _finally_ said it. After nearly a decade of waiting, there it is. 

It’s whispered, and hesitant. But it’s _real._ _So terrifyingly real._

I know he probably didn’t _mean_ for me to hear it, of course (He’s never been the best at determining when I’m _actually_ asleep), so I stay quiet. 

I want to do something. To declare my elation with a joyous cry. Or to reach out, hold him tight, and press a thousand kisses to his _beautiful, stupid_ face. But I don’t. He wouldn’t want me to. Even _with_ that … stunning revelation. 

So, unsurely, I smile to myself - My face rising, silently, against the still of the night. 

I smile, in spite of it all, because it’s _something._ Because it’s hope. Because Simon Snow loves me. And the world seems a little lighter - If only for tonight. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) I hope you enjoyed!  
> My Tumblr: [Link text](https://mageicalwishes.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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